I was conscripted,
Forced into these daylight trenches,
By a dice roll,
Snake eyes,
Fighting tooth and nail every year,
Ill-equipped,
Each turn of the sun another foe beaten,
Another hill won with blood,
My standard grows ever more grey,
A tired old veteran in the works,
And once the war is finally over,
I shall take the skeletal hand of the dark,
Like an old comrade,
And finally rest in calm halls.
A smash,
A glass siren into the night,
The reposed hovel is breached,
Something has slivered in through the chasm,
Something in a balaclava,
A knitted visage of ill intent,
The dark shape haunts the sleeping home,
Possessed of a crowbar conviction,
Studious in its search for pearls and trinkets,
Trespasser tentacles in every nook,
This monster is out of its habitat,
Timidly whispering in tongues,
You deign to catch it red-handed,
A monster hunter in your pyjamas,
A strike is readied,
This is no creature,
Within that woollen mask is a man,
Cold eyes full of panic,
Blue eyes of a desperate man.
I often wonder,
As I gaze at more tears on television,
Does life have a deus ex machina in the works?
A god out of the machine,
A plot twist in our lives,
A magical transcendental moment,
Perhaps an angel could lift a finger,
Or the Devil himself take a day off,
It’d be a game changer,
I wish someone would write that blissful passage,
To switch on the machine,
To rapidly change our fortunes,
Call it convenient,
Call it idealistic,
But have we not suffered enough?
Haven’t we crawled through enough ditches?
A sickening snap,
Metallic jaws latching on,
An agonising let-up in my journey,
This travail through life,
It was a clumsy miscalculation,
A wrong turn,
Blades of foul intent,
Or perhaps a deterring voice,
As cutting as any trap,
Bones splinter,
As my plan is crushed,
Smashed betwixt dragons teeth,
On my path forward,
A trail into foggy terrain,
It is laden with such menaces,
Each mutilated step,
A new trial of metal jaws to struggle with,
Ever after.
This desert of existence ranges onwards,
The dunes a maze of decisions,
Scathing to the touch,
My camel became bleached bone eons ago,
I’ve forgotten the sounds of life and flushing leaves,
The only caress from blades of desert wind,
I ache for an oasis of respite,
To rest my fèet upon regal silk,
To wash my hands in something other than grating sand,
Some pure water filled with praise,
A compliment not from a forked tongue,
Before resuming lifes journey,
I see pyramids filled with gold and felicity,
Dancing a slow sway upon the horizon,
The sight galvanises my steps,
Just a handful more miles of bland waste,
Or is it mirages that give me hope?
Has the heat of being gotten to me?
When lost in life,
A wilderness of town streets and motorways,
Directionless and addled,
There appears no clear path,
The gravel has given way to bog,
The blue sky grows weary,
Streetlights barely illuminating the way,
And wolves howl in the vicinity,
Roadsigns striving to send you to their jaws,
What do you do?
Do you hold the tools of survival?
Do you seek aid?
Garner information from friends and strangers both,
Do you chart your own path across the map?
Orienteering lifestyle,
Or do you remain perpetually lost?
Languish in the cold and sleet,
Never to see a warm hearth again.
Life is a story,
A play,
Directed and starred in by you,
It’s a monumental undertaking,
For which tickets are not sold but found,
So how your saga plays out,
To which heroes you draw upon,
The friends and allies you choose,
The pikes and standards that shall comprise your battle line,
It’s purely up to you,
Which villains you face,
Everests scaled and agonies weathered,
The trials you come to contend with,
The high octane action scenes you orchestrate,
It’s down to your personal plot,
All tales end,
That is the directive of chronology after all,
But rare is the yarn that is remembered,
So make it memorable,
Make it a saga for the ages.
What is a soul but a piece of artwork?
A brand new canvas on storks feather,
A blank slate brought into the world,
Still mewling for mothers milk,
Aching for a brushstroke of identity,
Of purpose,
Your sires gave you a pencil outline,
A blueprint to be sculpted by your hand,
A grey spook calling for some colour,
Though colour will not come freely,
Indeed the world has a temperamental palette,
It is a chaotic studio,
The soul shall become a kaleidoscope of glee and dolor both,
Pigments from every page of your story,
Some colours are bestowed by embraces and kisses,
Some strokes will be with razorblades and glass,
Chroma from every pleasure and ache,
Art is pain as they say,
These brushstrokes shall form a human soul,
Storied yet chafed,
A picturesque identity with tales to tell,
But by the end the soul is a tapestry,
Aged and cracked in its veneer,
A masterpiece to be planted in the cold earth.
Life ain’t no movie kid,
That’s what an old man once told me,
That silver screen don’t care about you,
You’re just existing like the rest of us maggots,
His grizzled lips chastised,
No red carpets are waiting for you,
Not a single accolade,
You’re no action hero,
Take off those silly shades,
And save the petty bravado,
There are no days to save or dragons to slay,
Damsels don’t need no champion,
This ain’t anything like the movies boy,
You’ll pass away with not even a credit,
The loathing in the old mans eyes grew heated,
We ain’t no all-star cast,
We’re just nobodies and hacks,
There’s no adept director guiding us,
No expertly crafted romance and plot,
Just a slow treadmill of life,
Steadily trudging towards a void with no acclaim,
His words trailed off,
Head in hands,
The old man wept.
This thing brings back memories,
A reliquary for a piece of my soul,
I grasp it close to my chest,
And take a jaunt down a familiar lane,
Both greet me as warm friends,
Happier times in golden years,
I need not describe this object,
For it is different for each of us,
A parental heirloom or gift from a personage departed,
But regardless of its somatic form,
The pure magic of sentimentality is at its core,
An ember of the past,
And it is true the past can be a scar,
Maybe even still riddled with maggots,
A twinge in the gut,
But this object can be as a lense,
Seeing past the memorial blockade that plagues you,
And perceiving the happy images of your life.
